Watson's eyes flickered open, his vision assaulted by the blinding white light above. He squinted, groaning as the sharp sting of brightness seared through his skull. "Ah… pain," he muttered weakly, instinctively raising a hand to shield his eyes. A sharp sting tore through his chest, freezing him in place as he gasped for air.
"Whoa, easy there, kid. If I were you, I wouldn't move just yet," a calm, almost amused voice sounded from his side.
Turning his head gingerly, Watson saw the speaker—a middle-aged man with silver-streaked hair and a knowing smile. Doctor G stood beside the bed, jotting something onto a clipboard with practiced ease.
Watson's thoughts moved sluggishly, his memories scattered like leaves caught in a storm. Flashes returned in fragmented bursts—his name, Watson Diarand, a newly discharged conscript ready to rejoin civilian life. He had been walking home when it happened: the screech of tires, the impact, the cold grip of death.
"Lucky doesn't even begin to cover it," Doctor G said, his voice cutting through Watson's haze. "You're a miracle case, boy. That steel bar pierced through your lung and should've killed you on the spot. But here you are." He gestured to Watson's arm, now encased in a heavy cast. "Your arm's broken, too. You'll be feeling that one for a while."
Watson's throat tightened as another memory slid into place. "My uncle…" he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible.
Doctor G's expression softened, but the words that followed hit like a sledgehammer. "I'm sorry, Watson. Your Uncle Rocco didn't make it. He died on impact."
The world seemed to tilt beneath him. Uncle Rocco—his mentor, his anchor—was gone. Grief surged, but Watson forced it down, refusing to crack. He gave a stiff nod. "Thanks, Doctor G. I'm… fine."
Doctor G didn't believe him, but he didn't press. With a somber nod, he stepped out, leaving Watson alone with his thoughts.
Memories crashed in like waves: Rocco's booming laughter, the smell of motor oil and burnt rubber in their auto shop, the late nights fixing cars for customers who could barely afford the repairs. And next door, Uncle Polk's gun shop, always a watchful presence.
Watson stared at the ceiling, his fists clenching tightly. I shouldn't have survived. But I did. And I won't waste this second chance.
The days following his discharge blurred together in numb routine. Polk and Aunt Liya greeted him warmly when he returned to the shop, their concern written plainly on their faces. Polk, gruff but caring, handed him a Glock 19. "For protection," he said.
Watson forced a smile, his heart heavy. The shop looked the same—tools scattered across the workbench, the faint scent of grease lingering in the air—but Rocco's absence loomed like a shadow.
But the city didn't wait for him to grieve.
A week later, Watson was walking home from the corner store when they appeared—a group of thugs leaning against a graffiti-covered wall. Their leader, a lanky man with garish purple hair, stepped forward, his leather jacket bearing the unmistakable Dark python Gang insignia.
"Well, well. If it isn't the cripple," the man sneered, his lips curling into a mocking grin. His gang circled Watson like vultures. "If you're smart, you'll limp back to mommy, boy. This block's ours now."
Watson's stomach churned. The Dark python Gang was notorious—ruthless, violent, and relentless. They'd been eyeing the West Block for months, and now, with Rocco gone, they saw their chance.
Watson clenched his jaw but kept his head down. Stay calm. Don't provoke them. He turned to leave, catching the greedy glint in the leader's eyes as he walked away.
That night, Watson didn't sleep. Instead, he fortified the shop. His military training took over as he built barricades, reinforced doors, and double-checked his firearms. Rocco's old shotgun hung on the wall, polished and loaded. His heart ached every time he looked at it, but he pushed the pain aside.
"This is my home now," he muttered. "They're not taking it from me."
Across the city, the Dark python Gang's headquarters buzzed with activity.
Cohen "Dark Python" Little, the gang's cold, calculating leader, sat at the head of a grimy table, his fingers steepled.
"Tonight," he hissed, his voice dripping with menace. "The kid's alone. Weak. We'll crush him, take the shop, and send a message."
Leaning against the wall, a woman in a skintight silver suit smirked.
Silver Snake, the gang's enforcer, exuded lethal grace. Her piercing gaze lingered on a map of the West Block. "Leave it to me," she purred. "I'll make it quick."
Watson sat in the darkened shop, his heart pounding as he waited. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the wind, set his nerves on edge. They're coming. I can feel it.
Unknowingly to him, the city above was alive with heroes.
Iron Man streaked across the night sky, repulsor blasts lighting up the skyline.
In Harlem, the Hulk roared, his massive fists reducing a derelict building to rubble.
In the shadows, Ant-Man slipped through cracks, uncovering hidden threats.
Watson didn't know it yet, but his fight with the Dark python Gang was only the beginning. In a world of gods, monsters, and heroes, his second chance would mean more than he could ever imagine.
And the Avengers were watching